


Maintenance

by De_Nugis



Series: Renovation [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Convalescent!Dean, some plumbing, a blowjob. That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintenance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous wish at insmallpackages.

Sam doesn’t often wax nostalgic about the good old days of themed motel rooms and credit card fraud. But there’s no denying their former lifestyle had its advantages. Some ways it was easy. Like how they could swing by to see Bobby any time they chose and not have to worry that the damn pipes would freeze while they were gone.

“Did you find the cinderblock?” Dean’s voice rebounds dully from the dank cement walls of the cellar. It smells of dirt and rust and Sam’s head brushes a beam as he leans forward and gives the wrench a half turn.

"Real men don’t need to stand on cinderblocks. I'm not even stretching. OK, now there's water streaming into our foundations. This was our goal?"

Dean's answer is a prolonged, wet coughing fit. Sam considers heading back upstairs, closing the cellar door so Dean won't be sitting in the draft, making him drink the tea that will be stone cold in front of him by the time Sam makes it back up. But there's water pouring into their foundations. It, like Dean, needs to be supervised.

Silence follows the coughing. The sound of Dean obstinately not sipping tea, Sam would recognize it anywhere.

"You're doing good, Sam," says Dean finally, hoarse and hollow. Like Sam needs to be emotionally supported through turning the water off. Dean knows how to turn an insult. "Now, go to the end of the furnace nearer the front of the house and look up. Open the petcock on the pipe there. You'll need pliers."

"Open the what?" says Sam, rummaging around in Dean's chaotic toolbox for the pliers. He can't have heard that one right. Or Dean is messing with him.

"Petcock," Dean shouts down the stairs. His voice has inexplicably strengthened.

"Dean, I'm not touching your pet cock with a ten foot pole, let alone pliers."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Sammy. A petcock's a valve. It’s at the angle of the pipes. Turn the flat hexagonal bit till water comes out."

"OK, your cute little penis valve is draining. What's next?"

"Pressure tank. Back wall. You sure you're paying attention, Sammy? I know how distracted you get once my cock enters the conversation."

Actually, it _is_ a little distracting. Dean's been sick, what, three weeks? Now Sam is stuck in the spidery chill of the basement while Dean's libido is finally reviving upstairs.

Upstairs. Upstairs brain. Pressure tank. Right.

"What do I do with the pressure tank?" Sam calls. Hopefully nothing remotely suggestive.

The pressure tank and the hot water tank are just hoses and drains. A three week dry spell isn't enough to make playing with hoses and drains remind Sam of sex with Dean. Really it isn’t. Sam watches the hose stiffen with the flow and then spurt. OK, then.

"Hot water tank'll take a while.” And maybe it’s not just the stubborn, dragging remnants of pneumonia making Dean’s voice all breathy, “Hey, why don’t you come up and give me a blowjob while it drains?"

Sam wavers.

“Shouldn’t I stay down here and make sure nothing, like, geysers?” he asks conscientiously. Dean had only agreed not to subject his convalescent lungs to the damp, cold, moldy basement after making Sam swear -- an actual, formal oath -- that he would not fuck this up and break Dean’s house.

“Nothing’s going to geyser,” says Dean. “Not unless you fucked it up. Did you fuck it up?”

“I didn’t fuck it up, Dean, Jesus,” says Sam, looking around at the two hoses running into the drain and the water dribbling from the petcock. He doesn’t _think_ he fucked anything up.

He starts up the stairs. Blowjob. Blowjob sounds good. Though Dean’s still coughing. Maybe if he shouldn’t be running up and down stairs fiddling with dripping water he also shouldn’t be having mind-blowing orgasms yet. And Sam still has the flush tanks and toilet bowls to drain. With a turkey baster. Having a life is weird.

Dean’s sitting at the table with his fly open and his legs lewdly splayed, untouched cup of tea at his elbow. He’s still stubbly and rumpled and tired looking, but the heat in his eyes and the flush in his cheeks aren’t fever, not any more. The house is cooling; they’ve switched the furnace off and stopped adding sticks to the stove. Against the view of grey afternoon and snow-laden trees and frozen lake out the window Dean’s red plaid shirt and absurd sexy pose send a glow of warmth into Sam’s belly.

“C’mhere,” croaks Dean. Sam comes over and Dean grabs his belt, starts to pull him down. Sam resists, leans over to feel the mug on the table. Stone cold.

"I'm going to make you another cup of that and you're going to drink it," Sam says. They’ve cleared the fridge but he kept back a lemon.

"Water's off, genius. I'm safe from your mucky health tea. Stop with the mother hen routine and blow me already."

"Electricity’s still on. I left the hot pot full. And we've got a case of bottled."

"Then I'll have to go outside in the snow to piss. I'll catch pneumonia again and this time I'll die. I bet you'll be sorry." Dean breaks for a pathetically fake cough. He’s working on undoing Sam’s belt. “I bet you’ll wish you’d at least given me a last blowjob.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Sam. He leans in and kisses Dean because at least that will shut him up. Dean’s lips are dry and chapped, but he opens immediately, pulling Sam into wet warmth, excruciatingly familiar. There’s an aching pulse of desire hammering in Sam’s groin. Christ. Has it only been three weeks?

The hot water can drain by itself. The toilets can wait. If Dean feels up to this surely Dean’s the best judge. Dean can have tea later. Tea. Lemon. Honey. Hot. Dean. Sam’s losing his train of thought. He groans. Dean grabs his ass and pulls him closer. Sam’s tipped forward half-straddling Dean, their dicks rubbing awkwardly together through Dean’s boxers and Sam’s jeans, and the chair’s going to crash over at any moment. There’s an ominous, bubbling sputter punctuating the steady gurgle from the hoses downstairs. Geysers, probably. Sam should really look into it.

"If our pipes burst while we're at Bobby's I want it noted in the record that it’s all your fault," he tells Dean. He’s maybe a bit out of breath, but the message gets through.

“Yeah, well, if my pipes burst while I’m waiting for you to give me a fucking blowjob it will be yours," Dean retorts. He shifts his leg so Sam loses his balance and slithers the rest of the way to the floor, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair and hauls his face in so Sam’s breathing in his crotch. Saliva rushes to Sam’s mouth in Pavlovian response.

He pulls down Dean’s jeans and boxers to his thighs, Dean wriggling to help him, pins Dean’s hips with his hands, digging in with his thumbs so Dean won’t get any ideas from the way he’s tugging Sam round by the hair or giving him orders about the fucking plumbing. Dean growls and tugs harder and Sam moans at the first touch of hot, delicate flesh against his lips.

To hell with not giving Dean ideas. Sam’s gripping Dean’s flesh now just to hold on, his own hips jerking forward in a helpless rhythm, cock aching against his zipper, and he’s letting Dean do what he wants, guide Sam’s mouth in a long, dragging lick up his shaft and then push Sam’s head down. “Yeah, that’s it, that’s good,” says Dean’s voice, so fucking turned on, not even hoarse any more and Sam sucks like he’s been in the desert three weeks and this is water.

Then Sam’s head is bobbing up and down on Dean’s dick and it’s all he can do to breathe. When he looks up for a moment Dean’s face has that look, that kind of wonder he gets when Sam sucks him down. Sam tongues just under the head and Dean’s babbling, “Yeah, Sammy, drain those pipes, show me what you’ve got,” which is like the stupidest dirty talk in the world. Sam is going to stop sucking and tell Dean so, but Dean yanks at his hair again and thrusts up into Sam’s mouth and Sam’s throat floods with Dean. Dean has somehow got his foot up against Sam’s crotch, nudging Sam’s groping hand aside, and he’s wearing fuzzly slipper socks, for heaven’s sake. He’s kneading at Sam’s dick through his jeans with his fuzzly slipper-socked toes and Sam’s coming in his pants.

And isn’t that just great. The water is off. No laundry. No shower. Sam slumps forward for a moment, face smeared against Dean’s thigh, getting an eyefull of Dean’s wet, softening dick, catching his breath. Then he sits back on his heels and wipes spit and come from his mouth with his sleeve because at this point he might as well.

“I hate you,” he says.

“I know you do,” says Dean. He moves the fuzzly slipper-socked foot up and rests it warmly on Sam’s chest, rocking Sam a little. He’s smirking fondly. He looks _well_. There’s a moment when Sam could deeply embarrass himself by hugging Dean’s fucking fuzzly foot. He’s that close, looking at the color in Dean’s face and remembering it three weeks ago, grey and sweaty and gasping from a twenty foot walk from the car to the Emergency Room door. But Dean takes the foot away before Sam can do anything irretrievable and uses it to prod annoyingly at Sam’s knee.

“I’ll have that tea now,” Dean says. “And you need to drain the toilets. The baster’s in a coffee can in the garage. Don’t forget the antifreeze.”

So, yeah, it’s harder now, some things, all this maintenance. Dean and the pipes and the house and mulching the garden in fall and fertilizing in spring and keeping them both supplied with slipper socks. It’s harder the way having something is harder. Sam gives the top of Dean’s foot a quick, surreptitious squeeze, and gets up to empty toilet water with a turkey baster.


End file.
